


Love Death Night Flight (our fate, it is sealed)

by thequiet_ones



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, POV Second Person, Vague reference to M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequiet_ones/pseuds/thequiet_ones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Robin John Blake. You live in Gotham. Bruce Wayne taught you to fake a smile and the Batman taught you how to use your anger. </p><p>Title reference to Childhood's End by Majical Cloudz</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Death Night Flight (our fate, it is sealed)

You are five when your mother dies. You do not remember it really, barely remember her. Your dad picking you up early from kindergarten, a pinched look on his face like he was trying not to feel all the things he was feeling. You have a vague memory of standing at the funeral, you remember being uncomfortable in the suit your dad borrowed. 

Your life continues though. Your dad yells a little more, he is always stressed now, upset. Your landlord yells a lot too. Sometimes, your dad does not have any money to give you for lunch at school. But life continues. 

You learn to write cursive. You learn about the history of your country, of your state, of Gotham. You make friends. You learn how to do the laundry and make scrambled eggs. You start learning the multiplication tables. Your dad takes care of you the best he can. He says, “I love you” and brushes your hair out of your face with gentle hands. 

One day on the news, you see a program about the anniversary of the Wayne’s deaths. They show a quick photo of the “Wayne boy”, an afterthought. The boy’s loss of his parents pales in comparison to the city’s loss of their benefactors. You are eight now and your dad tells you this city went to hell when they died. He makes a comment about wondering how their son is doing, Bryan or something. 

You are nine. Your dad has a problem and you know it. The two of you keep moving because there is always someone yelling at him for money. Never out of Gotham though. You never quite get out of Gotham. Would it have saved either of you, anyway?

You are ten and there is blood all over your hands, you are kneeling in a pool of it. Your ears are ringing, still, from the sound the gun made when they shot your father. You are pressing your still too small hands against the wound, begging, screaming for help. People turn away. People dying in the back alleys of Gotham is a familiar sight to them. It is not their tragedy or their concern but you are ten and your father is dying. 

Your father gurgles, “Robin, Robin, Robin, Robin.” Then he dies. 

And so you are then re-born. You are John, you are helplessly angry, and this is how your story truly begins. 

You are an orphan, have been for two years now. What is it about that word, _orphan_ , that causes people to look away quickly, pity and distain in their features? You hate them, hate them all. Their words and hands and eyes, so patronizing. Somewhere out there is the man who killed your father and you will return the favor one day. Somewhere out there are all the people who ignored your suffering that awful day. You will not forget and move on as they ask you too. You bottle it up, burning, burning.

Your anger, your drive becomes your saving gift. It prevents you from slacking off in class, it focuses you. When some of the other boys your age in the home begin selling drugs, you distance yourself. They stay away from you too, your anger is well-known, you are a powder keg. Everyone else stays out of your path too, teachers, the home directors, everyone tired of waiting for you to put the past behind you. 

You meet Bruce Wayne when you are fifteen. All the kids are excited, even the ones too old to believe the legends. He comes in a fancy car, speeding, with two beautiful women. You watch him walk up to the door from the window and then he’s there, big smiles for everyone, empty. He says some things, all-meaningless. His gaze meets yours for the briefest of moments and _you know_. It is an illusion-billionaire Bruce Wayne is an illusion, a prop. This is an angry, hurt man. You watch the minute tick of his jaw, like it’s sore from all the smiling. But you notice the way all the adults treat him, there is something to be said for illusions. So that night you stand in the bright, punishing light of the bathroom and you _smile_. 

When you turn your job application into the GCPD, you do so with a smile on your face. During the brief interview, you say everything they want to hear. You are eighteen and too young for your colleagues to truly trust you to watch their backs on the streets. Too young to see the dark heart of Gotham. You’re not worried though-orphans are part of that dark heart. You have already seen the very worst this city has to offer. You just need to protect the last few good things that have survived. 

You finally see the best of the city though when you’re 20. At the precinct everyone’s talking about the masked vigilante, about the three killers left handcuffed and unconscious on the precinct steps early that morning. You read the news, watch video footage, listen to witness’ accounts of the Batman avidly. You laugh near hysterically when you find out that Bruce Wayne has finally returned to Gotham. No one else sees the coincidence for what it is. The Batman wears the anger on his face plain as day, the very same anger that hides behind Wayne’s smile. It thrills you down to the core and you wish him the best. 

Things go to shit when you’re 27. Gotham becomes a true anarchist state, cut off from the rest world, held in the calloused hands of a mad man. And the Batman is gone. You do what you can, when you can, where you can, and wait for the inevitably of death. You watch friends and strangers die. You turn 28 during this period but feel so much older. When the Batman-when Wayne returns- you feel such a bone deep sense of joy and relief, you could cry. 

At the end of it all you wait for a bomb, so so so so frustrated, angry, overwhelmed because there is a bus full of children that _could have been saved_. And then Bruce, Bruce saves _you_ , them, all of Gotham again, for the final time. You should be relieved, proud, happy but you are still so angry. Angry about the shackles, about the sacrifices, about law and justice, angry about death. 

It turns out you were wrong though because Bruce saves you again-a bag of climbing gear, coordinates. You stand empowered in the cave and you can feel the legacy around you. It doesn’t take you long to reach the underground bunker with all the pretty gadgets and cars. There’s note too, to you with Bruce’s messy signature scrawled along the bottom—“I’ll be seeing you soon. Take care of our city.” The relief finally comes.

Time passes. During the day you work at the Wayne Home for Children and at night you work in the streets, protecting the city just as your predecessor did. You consult with Gordon frequently; he knows what you’re doing but neither of you ever speak directly about it. One night, you stumble back to the cave to patch your injured self up, half delirious. Bruce is there waiting for you. He tends to your wounds, whispers encouragement. In the morning he’s gone leaving nothing but a neat line of stitches on your left forearm. You think secretly to yourself that even though Bruce is done saving the whole city, he’s still saving you. 

You are almost 30. You love both your jobs. Every now and then the man, whose legacy you wear, appears with gentle hands and soft words; sometimes it’s more than just patching up wounds, sometimes it’s heat and affection and trust and respect and a soft mattress. A surprise but the best kind. You are still angry sometimes and you use it well. Gotham still has its claws in you but that’s no longer a bad thing. You’re going by Robin again even though it hurts sometimes _still_ to hear that name come from anyone but your father’s mouth. It’s who you are though.


End file.
